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Knt.-rcdaour.lin- t • .V/tofC ngn 3 . in tbc ; 

J. C. DCTCBXB, 

in the Clerk's office of the District Curt of the In' ed B it.-, for 
Southern District of New York. 



The Library 
of C 



WAS:- 



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MEMBERS OF MY PASTORAL CHARGES, 



THIS VOLUME 



FFECTIONATELY DEDICATED. 



CONTENTS. 



SERMON I.— The Departure. 

II. — The Condition. 

III. — The Resolution. 

IV. — The Return. 

V. — The Reception. 

VI. — At Home Again. 



PREFACE. 



T I iHIS little volume makes no pretensions to superior 
merit. It does not lay claim to any great literary 
excellence. Its chief value consists in the importance of 
the truths of which it treats. 

It has been prepared at the earnest and frequent solici- 
tation of many who listened to the discourses contained 
in it, as they were delivered from the pulpit. In treating 
the parable, it has been the writer's aim, in a familiar man- 
ner, to trace the analogy existing between the course of 
the pi'odigal and that of the sinner, from the moment of 
departure from God, till the penitential return. 

rso where are the richness and the fulness of Gospel 
grace so beautifully taught, as in this heavenly parable. 
The writer has endeavored to present these features as 
practically as possible. The design being to give them 
such a presentation that some might be benefited. In the 
preparation of this little volume, the Author has availed 
himself of the helps at hand. 

J. 0. D. 
Bound Brook, 1ST. J., January, 1870. 



THE DEPARTURE. 



Luke, lo : 13. 

• And not many days after, the younger son gathered 
all together, and took his journey into a far 

COUNTRY.'' 



T)ECAU$E the blessed Master kindly treated 
publicans and sinners, the Scribes and Phari- 
sees were displeased. They would not associate 
with them ; it was a matter of surprise, therefore, 
that Jesus should " receive sinners and eat with 
them." They forgot that the Saviour's great er- 
rand on earth, was, not to " call the righteous, 
but sinners, to repentance :" that thus they might 
be fitted, hereafter, to sit down with Him in his 



(j THE PRODIGAL SON. 

own beautiful home in glory. Christ would show 
those self-righteous hearers how delightful, how 
very delightful, was a sinner's conversion to God. 
The better to do this, He delivered this inimitable 
parable. And, in the whole Bible, there is not 
one in which the largeness, and the richness, of 
gospel grace, are set forth so beautifully, and so 
fully, as in this. Touching this parable it can 
truthfully be said, "what more could the Saviour 
do to encourage sinners to come to him?" Well 
has it been called " the Gospel within a Gospel." 
it tells the sinner everything that is needful to hi' 
known. Tt tells him how he may return to Jesus; 
and it assures him of a hearty welcome. How 
touchingly tender is the parable, in all its parts. 
How well calculated to cause to vibrate the finest 
chords in the human heart. By the employing of 
the figure of a father and child, and by the perfect 
representation of the father's solicitude, it must 
have brought conviction to even the hard hearts 
of Pharisees and Scribes. 



THE DEPARTURE. t 

With tlie elder son, or moral man, Ave have no- 
thing to do. It is of the younger, or prodigal, 
that we desire to speak. It is this son that is de- 
signed to represent the character of the wander- 
ing sinner. It is our purpose to follow him, from 
the time of his leaving home till his penitential 
return, and his reception by his father, believing 
that his character represents, as nothing else can, 
the character of the sinner, from his departure 
until his return and reception by the Saviour. It 
marks out the path, in which every impenitent 
person must travel, if he comes to his Father and 
receives his forgiveness. 

In this, our opening discourse, we shall pass 
over the younger son's previous life, and contem- 
plate his departure from home. "And not many 
days after, the younger son gathered all together 
and took his journey into a far country." 

We may remark: 



» THE PRODIGAL SUN. 

First. — That he left his father's house proudly. 
Tins is implied in the words, "Father, give me the 
portion of goods that belongs to me." You sec, 
that it is rather demanding that as a right, which 
his relation should have prompted him to ask as a 
favor. Doubtless the law of that country entitled 
him to it, when of age. Still, respect for the pa- 
rent who had always treated him kindly, should 
have suggested a milder May of making his re- 
quest known. 

His bearing is conclusive proof that lie possess- 
ed much pride. Roving in disposition, he was 
impatient of parental restraint. The home of his 
childhood had lost its attractiveness. Even his 
father's love had ceased to render him contented. 
And, with an assumed importance of manner, with 
a false confidence in his own ability, he said, " Give 
me my portion, and I will go. I will be my own 
master. I will trouble you no longer. I will 
leave the endearments of my early home. I will 



TH E DEPA RTU R E. 9 

go to be a wanderer in a far oft' country, and you 
shall hear of me no more." He was so proud that 
he was unkindly disrespectful to his father, and 
unjust to himself. INTo tear-stain was upon his 
cheek, and no feeling of sadness was in his heart. 
Pride, that enemy to contentment, to happiness, 
and to God, kept his false courage up, when the 
moment of his departure came. " Give me my por- 
tion, and let me go." 

There surely was no credit in the younger son 
thus leaving the home of his childhood. Here- 
after, should difficulties encompass his path, it 
would be a source of regret that he had thus left 
the father who had always been tender. Perhaps 
the prodigal knew it not ; but in every respect he 
was leaving home. How suggestive, how thrill- 
ingly important, to the young man leaving his 
fathers house, to battle with a world of which he 
knows but little ! 

As did the prodigal, so does the sinner depart 



10 THE PRODIGAL SON. 

from God. No man ever yet cut himself loose 
from religious influences, who was not under the 
control of pride. Pride causes the sinner to wan- 
der, and pride keeps him from returning. 

When speaking of the righteous, the Bible says, 
" God is a God that is near, and not afar off." But 
a sinning state is departing from God. It is a re- 
volting from allegiance to Him ; and the more sin- 
ful one becomes, the farther he goes. Sin places 
a barrier between the creature and the Creator. 
The more sin is committed, the larger this barrier 
becomes ; and the greater this becomes, the farther 
does it remove from God. It is the teaching of 
the Bible that the wicked wander upon the dark 
mountains of sin. Isaiah told his erring country- 
men, that their iniquities had separated between 
them and their God; and their sins had hid his 
face from them, that they could not hear. Sin, 
then, is a departure from God. And the sinner, 
in this departure, bears himself as proudly as did 



THE DEPARTURE. 11 

the younger son. lie does not say, " give me my 
portion," for he has none. lie is poor. A beggar, 
without even a fig-leaf covering to hide his moral 
deformity ! His very first step towards ruin, is 
marked with pride. " "Who is the Lord, that I 
should obey him?"" " We desire not a knowledge 
of thy ways, thou King of Saints," is the language 
of his heart. Who has ever heard of one living in 
sin, when he might come to Jesus, who was not 
proud ? Who has ever yet heard of one continuing 
to wander from God, in whom an unreasonable 
pride was not the motive power ? It is pride that 
manufactures the glass of prejudice, through which 
he looks at everything good ; and unless he repent, 
it is pride that will forge the chain that shall bind 
him in the prison-house of everlasting death. 

The prodigal's first step, in the road to ruin, 
was taken when he so haughtily demanded his 
portion, and turned his back upon the home of his 
childhood, and the sinners, when he refuses the 



12 J II K PRODIGAL SOX. 

guardianship of Jesus, and wanders far away upon 
the dark mountains of sin. 

We may remark : 

Second. — That the prodigal left his father's 
house voluntarily. From no part of the narrative 
does there seem to have been any coercive meas- 
ure used by the parent. There does not seem to 
have been any previous misunderstanding. There 
could not have been. Nothing but kindness and 
love was shown by the father. The first intima- 
tion lie had of his son's purpose, was, when he came 
and so haughtily made his demand. Everything 
tended to show that the act was a perfectly vol- 
untary one. Should his path be thorny, and diffi- 
culties hedge his way, after he had become a wan- 
derer in afar off country, no one but himself would 
be responsible. 

Had there been a single reason, the ease would 
have been different. But there was none. Cer- 
tainly not, as to accommodation, for these were 



THE DEPARTURE. 



ample. They were more than enough for the fa- 
ther and the two sons ; for the men servants and 
the maid servants ; and for all who, at any time, 
might desire to partake of their hospitality. 

Had there been a scarcity of provisions, it would 
have been different. But this was not the case. 
When the prodigal had wandered long, and had 
begun to feel the inconveniences and hardships of 
his voluntary exile, the first words that his impov- 
erished state extorted from him, were, " How many 
lii red servants of my father have bread enough and 
to spare !" 

Had his parent been unkind to him, it would 
have been different. But such was not the case. 
There was not one feeling in that parent's bosom, 
but regard and the tenderest love. He mourned 
his waywardness, and deeply did he feel the ab- 
sence of his wandering son. And when, at length, 
a poor miserable beggar, he returned to crave the 
shelter of the roof from which, a season before, 



14 THE PKODIGAL SON. 

he bad so proudly departed, his father saw him a 
great way off, and ran and fell on his neck and 
kissed him. Everything tends to make it abun- 
dantly plain, that he left of his own accord; freely, 
voluntarily. 

My friends, so is it with the sinner. He departs 
voluntarily from God. lie goes, too, against the 
strongest solicitations of the strongest love. A 
heart as kind, as tender, and as loving as the Sav- 
iour's could not drive any away. Would the pa- 
rent force his own child from home, to be a wan- 
derer, upon the high-way of life? Sometimes this 
is the case. But it is never so with God. With 
deeper feeling than ever had a lodgement in human 
heart, Jesus would encircle the wanderer in his 
arms, and lay him upon his bosom, rather than 
drive him away. With double emphasis is it true, 
that, when the sinner departs from the Saviour, 
he goes voluntarily. 



the departure: l.> 

Take a man in his downward course ; view him, 
as step after step, he goes to fill an early and dis- 
honored grave ; who will say, but that lie acts 
voluntarily ? Perhaps not as much so when he 
gets to the bottom, as when he began to descend. 
Xow his habit has obtained a wondrous power;, 
then it had not. But he took the first step with 
perfect freedom. Thus Avhen the sinner departs- 
from God, when evil befalls him, and he has had 
practical knowledge that the way of the trans- 
gressor is hard ; it will not be any alleviation of 
his misery to know that the act, on his part, was 
perfectly free ; that nothing but his sinful heart 
drew him from God. 

Of what argument can the sinner make use to 
prove that Jesus forced him away? Not one. 
There is no one who is so mindful of all his wants, 
or to whom he is under so many obligations. He 
cannot say that because of God's poverty, he is 
forced away. No one in the universe is so rich as- 



1<5 THE PRODIGAL SON. 

the Saviour. Every beast of the forest is His, and 
the cattle upon a thousand hills. The treasures 
which are hoarded in the teeming* earth, and all 
the wealth of heaven, are also His. lie has a suf- 
ficiency to give vast and enduring riches to all his 
creatures. The sinner cannot say that he is forced 
away because of God's accommodation. There is 
room in the banqueting chamber on earth, for 
every weary and heavy laden soul. In the house 
of many mansions, which Jesus went to prepare 
in glory, there are apartments for a thronging 
multitude. A great number have come out of trib- 
ulation, and have Avashed their robes, and made 
them white in the blood of the Lamb ; yet the foun- 
tain is still open, and its waters are ceaselessly 
flowing. 

In truth, the sinner has no. excuse for leaving, 
and going into a far country. In every respect his 
mouth must be stopped, and he be speechless. 
There is, with the Redeemer, unparalleled kind- 



THE DEPARTURE. 17 

ness, boundless love, inconceivable wealth, and 
ample room. The sinner goes because he wishes 
to go. It is his own inclination that leads him to 
the course. Every person's departure from God is 
as certainly a free-will act, as was the prodigal 
son's, when he demanded his portion, departed 
from his father's door, and became a wanderer in 
a distant country. 

We may remark : 

Third. — That the prodigal left his home against 
the wishes of his parent. We are no where dis- 
tinctly told this ; yet it is certainly to be inferred. 
It would seem to be in harmony with the natural 
promptings of the heart. I^ot only the ordinary, 
but the peculiar relation that parent and child sus- 
tained, the one to the other, would impel to such 
a belief. The father had only two sons — at once 
the objects of affection and the companions of his 
solitude. They lived in each other, and for each 
other. The sons' company would be doubly val- 



18 THE PJRODIGAL SON. 

ued, as the parent had begun to decline in years, 
and more than ever would lie wish to retain them 
in his house, that they might cheer him in his lone- 
liness, and help him to bear the burdens which 
age always brings. They would so smooth his 
pathway that his heart would be sunny. It must 
be, that the prodigal left home, on a journey so 
uncertain and eventful, against parental wishes. 

Jiy placing ourselves in the father's stead, we 
can readily imagine what his feelings must have 
been. Besides, where a stranger would not have 
seen danger, a tender parent would have seen 
much. In the same proportion to the danger, 
would be his anxiety that it should be avoided. 
We feel that it was one of the most gloomy hours 
•of that parent's life, when the younger son left 
home for a far country. We feel that he took a 
portion of the happiness of that household with 
him. The tenor of the whole parable not only 
indicates this truth, but renders it perfectly appa- 



THE DEPARTURE. 19 



rent. If, on his return, — after months of absence, 
a poor, tattered beggar, from his wearisome, pain- 
ful wanderings, — his father saw him a great way 
off, and had compassion on him, and ran and fell 
on his neck and kissed him, who can resist the 
conviction that a deep and changeless love filled 
that parent's heart toward his wayward and prodi- 
gal son? "Who can doubt but that a tear stood 
in his eye, and sorrow filled his bosom, when that 
son departed to try his fortune in the world, and 
alone to buffet its stormy waves ? Who can doubt 
that he went despite entreaties and prayers? 

My friends, so it is with the sinner. There are 
none whom God will drive away. There are none 
whom He desires to go. There are none who have 
not a cordial and earnest welcome to stay. Of the 
millions who have wandered far away, there has 
not been one but that went against the wish of 
the Saviour. Jesus laid by His sceptre and His 
crown, and became incarnate to save such. " The 



20 THE PJRODIGAL So\. 

most tender expostulations of divine mercy, are 
uttered over the erring, and the sinning," and 
those far from God. " How shall I give thee up, 
Ephraira?" isHislanguage to his wandering- chil- 
dren. " I have no pleasure in the death of the 
sinner, but rather that he would turn unto me 
and live. Turn ye, turn ye. for why will ye die. 
O house of Israel." 

We can imagine the strong yearnings of par- 
ental care, as shown in entreating the son to re- 
main at home. As human nature would he 
operated upon, so human nature would show it- 
self in the noblest character it ever assumes. But 
even imagination fails, when we would picture 
the unwillingness of the Saviour, to let the sinner 
wander upon the mountains of iniquity; — as His 
care is so higher, deeper, broader, and stronger, 
than anything of which earth has knowledge. He, 
whose life w r as one continuous act of kindness and 
of love, when Pie dwelt among men ; He, who now 



THE DEPARTURE. 21 

stands at the door of the sinner's heart, and 
knocks for admittance, till the dew-drops hang 
from his locks, is distressed, when any of His 
creatures are desirous of wandering from His pres- 
ence. He would have all to stay, and partake of 
His kindness and His care forever. 

Impenitent friends, you have wandered — wan- 
dered far from God. You have departed, not 
only voluntarily, but against the wishes of the 
best and truest Friend that you can ever have. 
Did the father think, with grief, of his wandering 
son, when his home was with strangers, and his 
condition that of the most degraded menial. So 
Jesus looks down, from his beautiful home, upon 
you ; and feels that He cannot give you up. When 
the sinner goes away from the Saviour, he goes 
from home. He leaves the house, where the low- 
est servant has enough and to spare, for a pit- 
tance ; and that for a few years at most. Would 
that we could tell you how much you lose, when 
2 



22 THE PRODIGAL SOX. 

you go away from the Redeemer. You exchange 
happiness for misery — joy for sorrow — the com- 
panionship of Jesus, the mediator of the new cov- 
enant, and the general assembly and church of 
the first-born, for that of Satan and the fallen 
angels. 

Think of the kindness lie has done you. Think 
of the blessings with which He lias crowned your 
way. Think of the invitations, which He lias ex- 
tended, to you, of adoption into His family. Think 
that, not a day, or an hour of the day, His eye 
has not watched, over you ; and His hand has not 
led you gently along. And can you have the 
least doubt, that your departure greatly grieves 
Him? 

. Besides, none ever leave the Saviour, who do 
not themselves bitterly regret it. When sickness 
comes, or death stands knocking for admittance 
at their hearts, they would give untold wealth for 



THE DEPARTURE. 23 

the companionship and love of Jesus. Why will 
you depart into a far country? Why will you 
place a barrier between you and your God ? 

As we told you in the beginning, sin is this 
barrier ; the more and the greater the sin com- 
mitted, the larger does it become ; and the further 
does it remove one from his heavenly Father. 
And the experience of the world has proved it to 
be true, that the longer one stays away from God, 
the greater the uncertainty that he will ever re- 
turn. 

My friends, I would not go away from plenty — 
from happiness — and from love. I would not 
leave the place around which, hereafter, memory 
will linger ; nor the person, touching whom will 
be the most bitter regrets of the dying hour. Oh 
no ! I would not leave my Father's bosom for any 
spot in this cold world of sin. I would not be a 
wanderer, in a far off country, when I could re- 



24 THE TRODIGAL SON. 

main at home. I would not spend my days among 
strangers and aliens from the commonwealth of 
Israel, when I might pass them in quietude among 
the members of the household of faith. I would 
not have God as my enemy, when He so much de- 
sires to be my friend. Then be instructed by the 
prodigal, and learn a life-long lesson from his sad 
experience and from his hard lot. Renounce your 
sins, and remain at home with Jesus. 



THE CONDITION. 



Luke, 15 : 14, 15, 1G. 

" And when he had spent all, there arose a mighty 
famine in that land ; and he began to be in" want. 

" and he went and joined himself to a citizen of that 
country ; and he sent him into his fields to feed 

SWINE. 
''AND HE WOULD FAIN HAVE FILLED HIS BELLY WITH THE 
HUSKS THAT THE SWINE DJD EAT." 

npHAT sin, as well as drowsiness, will clothe a 
man with rags, is a truth that none can ques- 
tion. That sin will not only lead to poverty, but 
to the lowest conceivable degradation, is equally 
true ; and that, while it makes poor and degrades, 
it renders unhappy and miserable, is as certainly 
the case. Aside from our own observation, this 
is abundantly proved by the history of the world, 
and by the word of God. You can mark the 



26 THE PRODIGAL SOX, 

course of sin, by the countless evils that follow 
in its train. It is, confessedly, the greatest enemy 
to man ; and the most fatal to his present and ever- 
lasting happiness. It robs him of the honors of 
his pristine state, and leads him by a path that 
ever inclines downward. 

In this discourse, the second upon this interest- 
ing parable, we are led to view the misery into 
which sin plunges its subject, and some of the 
dreadful straits into which it leads him. As we 
remarked, a moment since, sin robs man of every- 
thing that is noble, and places him, in the scale 
of being, by the side of the beasts that perish. 
It blunts the finer feelings of his nature, and 
makes him anything but what he was when he 
came from the hands of his Maker. . 

We ask your attention, while we dwell upon 
the prodigal's condition when in a far country. 

We remark : 



THE CONDITION. 2 t 

First. — That he was in an impoverished con- 
dition. This truth is clearly taught in the words, 
" And when he had spent all, there arose a mighty 
famine in the land, and he began to be in want.' ' 
Then poverty was not merely seen at a distance,- 
but she really encircled him in her haggard arms. 
How pointedly, yet how modestly, it describes 
deep indigence. He began to be in want — not of 
the luxuries, nor of the comforts, but of the ne- 
cessaries, of life. "What shall I eat, what shall I 
drink, and wherewithal shall I be clothed?" were 
enquiries in which he had a mournfully deep in- 
terest. 

The remaining verses of the text show conclu- 
sively that his poverty must have been extreme. 
Nothing but dire necessity would have constrain- 
ed him to resort to the means that he did, to pro- 
cure a scanty livelihood. "And he went and join- 
ed himself to a citizen of that country,, and he 
sent him into the fields to feed swine. And he 



28 THE PRODIGAL SOX. 

would fain have filled his belly with the husks that 
the swine did eat ; and no man gave unto him." 

Now place these two pictures together. The 
young man, at his father's, with every comfort 
and luxury. The young man, in a far off country, 
in so starving a condition that he was obliged to 
rob the swine of part of their food. We can- 
not think of anything that tells of poverty so 
deep and so pinching, or of wretchedness that has 
more of misery in it. At his father's, he said to 
one " Go ;" and he went. To another " Come ;" 
and he came. In a far off country, he was the 
very lowest of servants, engaged in the very low- 
est of occupations. At his father's he had the 
best of homes ; the kindest of parents ; true friends ; 
and sympathizing kinsmen. In a far off country, 
he had no home ; no father ; no friends ; no kins- 
men. There were none that loved him ; none that 
cared for him ; and none that felt an interest in his 
welfare. At his father's he had more than enough 



THE CONDITION". 29 

to eat. and to drink, and to be clothed. In a far 
off country, he was a poor, tattered beggar, with 
scarcely enough to sustain life. 

Is it, can it, be he, who so proudly demanded 
his portion that he might go ? Can it be he who 
voluntarily left the home of his childhood ? It is 
the same. But how changed ! We can scarcely 
recognize, in the haggard, ragged, and half-starved 
swine-feeder, the younger son, who, at home, had 
every luxury that wealth could procure. Could 
we but draw these two pictures truthfully before 
you, the conviction could not be resisted, that the 
prodigal's condition was an impoverished one. 

So is it with the sinner. You require not to be 
told that this part of the parable is replete with 
instruction. It is a truth, abundantly confirmed, 
that sin will bring a man into straits ; and that, 
equally with drowsiness, it will clothe him with 
rags. When one departs from God, he leaves 



30 THE PRODIGAL SON. 

comfort, and plenty, and wealth. And lie says to 
poverty "thou art my father;" and to misery, 
"thou art my mother and my sister/' 

Point us to the man who lias wandered faraway 
upon the dark mountains of sin, and we will show 
you one who is poor. Xo matter if attired in pur- 
ple and fine linen, and faring sumptuously every 
day. Lazarus, the beggar, — whose clothing was 
tattered ; whose body was covered with loathsome 
sores ; whose only friends were the dogs that lick- 
ed them; who vainly begged for the crumbs that 
fell from Dives 1 table ; whose bed was the ground ; 
whose pillow was a stone; who, in this humble 
manner, died alone, unpitied and unwept; who 
was carried out by strangers and buried in an 
unknown grave, with no stone to mark his last 
resting-place, — was infinitely more wealthy than 
the rich man, at whose gate he lay. 

The poor, slighted and despised beggar had a 



THE CONDITION. 31 

band of angels to hover around his hnmble death- 
place ; to bear his freed and raptured soul to the 
ante-chamber of the great King. The rich man, 
though surrounded with every luxury, and with 
hosts of friends, died alone. There was not a sin- 
gle visitant from a happier sphere to hover around 
his gorgeous death-bed ; to bear his departing spir- 
it tenderly up to that fair land where the angels- 
live. The one was rich in the wealth that waxeth 
not old; while he, to whose earthly possessions 
there was hardly a limit, was poor. 

However paradoxical it may seem to the worlcl y 
is is nevertheless true, that he who has departed 
from God is poor. As much so as was the prodi- 
gal, when tending his master's swine in afar coun- 
try. There is as great a contrast, between such 
an one's condition then, and what it would have 
been had he not departed from God, as there was 
between the prodigal's, at his father's house, and 
the prodigal's in a far country. What is the 



"32 THE PRODIGAL SOX. 

wealth of earth worth, when its possessor has 
thrown away His mercies; "the favor of God; 
the strivings of the Spirit; and the admonitions 
of conscience?" Is not the sinner poor? Does 
he not suffer the most pinching poverty, if in want 
of necessaries for the soul ? 

A departure from God, — a sinful state, — " is like 
the land where famine always reigns." The 
worst poverty, ever seen or felt on earth,' is spirit- 
ual poverty. We can imagine a condition that 
is perfectly miserable. Where one is penniless, 
friendless, homeless ; and with barely enough to 
sustain a nature half famished by abstinence ; yet 
we can tell you of a lot harder to be borne ; of a 
condition that is infinitely more miserable. Where 
one is living away from God, with no treasure laid 
up " where moth does not corrupt, and where 
thieves do not break through and steal." You 
•cannot think of a state so utterly destitute of 
-everything that is desirable ; as having no hope 



THE CONDITION. 33- 



in the world, and marching down to everlasting, 
death. 

We remark: 

Second. — That the prodigal's condition was de- 
graded. He moved in a rank, so far below the one 
to which he had previously belonged, that scarce- 
ly would you know him to be the same person. 
He was so debased that ail sense of honor had 
departed. This is plainly inferable from the words, 
"and he went and joined himself to a citizen of 
that country, and he sent him into the fields to 
feed swine." He was willing to engage in any 
occupation, and to perform any duty, regardless 
of character. 

To see the force of these words, and to have a 
just conception of his degradation, it must be re- 
membered that the young man was a Jew. While, 
therefore, the employment of feeding swine, was 
an occupation in which none but the lowest class- 



34 THE PRODIGAL SOX. 

engaged, to a Jew it was particularly mean. It 
was forbidden totliem to eat swine's flesh ; it was 
even unlawful for them to keep it. For the poor- 
est of them to he thus occupied was looked upon 
as a degradation ; but for one who had previously 
moved in the higher Avalks of life, it was incon- 
ceivably low. How great the change must have 
been to him, from former competence to present 
want ! To what a pitiable depth he must have 
sunk, that he would hire himself for such employ- 
ment, even to preserve his life! 

We are tempted to enquire, whether it can be 
the same person who was so comfortable and hap- 
py ; a loved inmate of his father's house. It was 
the same. But what a change! "What a commen- 
tary on those words of the Bible, "The way of 
the transgressor is hard." Unless his moral sense 
was perfectly deadened, he must have felt that his 
own hand had prepared wormwood and gall to 
drink. 



THE CONDITION. 3o 

So is it with the sinner. You require not to be 
told that this part of the prodigal's history de- 
scribes, with singular accuracy, a part of the his- 
tory of every sinner. Who does not know that 
sin debases him who commits it ? The design of 
this figure is to show the degradation of trans- 
gression ; and, surely, nothing could more vividly 
do it. 

What in the world is meaner than sin ? What 
will more quickly and certainly, degrade one 
in the estimation of the wise and good ? What 
sooner than it, will make one an exile from his 
heavenly Father, and a lone wanderer in this far 
off wilderness? Sin strips man of honor. It 
robs him of dignity. It takes from him all claim 
to respect. It deadens his perceptions to right 
and to wrong. It makes him forgetful of every 
moral obligation. It renders God an enemy ; and 
it lowers him, in the scale of being, to an equal- 
ity with the beasts that perish. Sin makes the 



36 THE PRODIGAL SOX. 

man who commits it, as disreputable, in the view 
of good men, as was the prodigal, in the estima- 
tion of his countrymen, when he was a swine- 
feeder in a distant land. There is nothing that, so 
effectually as sin, roots out everything in the soul 
that is virtuous ; and renders it a perfect blank to 
heavenly aspirations. 

Think of the long catalogue of crimes that it 
heads, and of the numberless victims whom it 
sends to early and dishonored graves. Would 
you see loathsome debasement ? You will find it 
in him who is the willing child of vice ! Would 
you see it in its most disgusting forms ? Go to 
him who has cut himself loose from all moral re- 
straints ! and you will see it till the heart grows 
sick — you will see a debasement that is as low as 
the brutes — a degradation that is a disgrace to 
humanity. 

Degradation and sin are synonymous ; where 



THE CONDITION. 37 

one is you will always find the other. In the 
wide world you cannot find a man, who has de- 
parted from God by reason of sin, who is not 
wonderfully, painfully sunken. 

On the other hand, you cannot find one, who 
has walked in the Saviour's precepts, and obeyed 
His commandments, who has not dignity as a 
crown of glory upon his head. 

You must allow us to repeat a thought, of which 
we have made use. Sin will bring a man into the 
committal of deeds, so mean and so base, that 
respectability will turn from him with horror, and 
virtue will weep when looking upon a scene so 
mournful. Sin, in its results to us, is what the 
feeding of swine was to the prodigal. Its course 
is downward. Its fruit is bitterness, debasement 
and death. Like the oriental serpent, sin always 
covers its victim with its nauseous slime; thus 
making it as but the personification of itself. 
3 



38 THE PRODIGAL SON. 

Happy, thrice happy, is he, who is free from its 
tyrannical chains, and over whom it does not exert 
an influence. Must not sin be degrading in its 
nature? Must it not be that abominable thing 
.that God hateth ? 

We remark : 

Third. — The prodigal was unhappy. This is 
not distinctly told us. It is, however, a natural 
inference from the words of the text, "And when 
he had spent all, there arose a mighty famine, and 
he began to be in want. And he went and join- 
ed himself to a citizen of that country; and lie 
sent him into the fields to feed swine." To us it 
seems, that he could not have been other than 
perfectly miserable with such surroundings. 

Busy, mournful memory, must have revived the 
scenes of other days. Could he be otherwise, 
when in his loneliness, and poverty, and debase- 
ment, he thought of the father he had grieved ; 



THE CONDITION. ' 39 

of the home he had left ; and of the abundance he 
had foolishly and inexcusably squandered? Could 
he be otherwise, when he thought of what might 
have been his condition, and what it was ? 

Let the feelings which that comparison was 
likely to produce, have a lodgement in your heart ; 
and you cannot but see, that his must have been 
saddened by a thousand harassing emotions. His 
exile must have been a hard one, enlivened by 
not the smallest joy. His own thoughts must have 
been tormentors; and his torturing misery the 
scorpion that was always stinging. Were we 
asked to picture a condition, that would give the 
most perfect idea of unhappiness, we should refer 
you to that half-starved, half-clothed swine-feeder, 
in a far country ; and, as we asked you to look 
upon him, with hollow cheek, with sunken eye, 
with despairing countenance, with filthy, tattered 
rags, that scarce covered his nakedness, and with 
almost a maniac look, we should feel that you 



40 ' THE PRODIGAL SON. 

had before you living unhappiness, and absolute 
misery. 

Tell us not that wretchedness has her dwelling- 
place anywhere in this dark world of sin, if she 
had not a lodgement in the heart of that poor, lone 
wanderer from his father's door. He was unhap- 
py. The memories of the past ; the extremities 
of the present ; and the uncertainties of the future, 
were all calculated to make him so. 

So is it with the sinner. Need we tell you, that 
this part of the prodigal's history, is filled with 
most valuable instruction? It is no strange doc- 
trine to communicate, that the sinner is unhappy. 
Yea, that at times he is very miserable. In whose 
bosom should painful apprehensions reign supreme, 
if not in his who has wandered far from God, and 
from all the pleasure which intercourse with Him 
produces? Whose bosom should be filled with 
the keenest anguish, if not his, of whom the Bible 



THE CONDITION. 41 



declares, that he is like the ever-moving, restless 
sea? Who should so painfully know the depth 
of sorrow, as he who is living without God, and 
without hope in the world ? Who should feel the 
gloom of coming ill so painfully as he with whom 
God is angry every day ; and who has no pros- 
pect of an inheritance beyond the grave ? With 
no hope, either for this life or for that which is to 
come; with nothing from which to draw consola- 
tion, to sustain in sickness, or to buoy above the 
terrors of the dying hour, the sinner must be un- 
happy. " Who has misery — who has woe — who 
has anguish," like the godless man? Is it not 
true that these words of the Bible, " the heart 
knoweth its own bitterness, and a stranger does 
not intermeddle with its grief," have their fullest 
confirmation in the experience of the impenitent ? 

My friends, dismiss other thoughts, and tell us ; 
yea, rather answer to conscience and to God : Is 
this not true? Compare your feelings of every- 



42 THE PRODIGAL SON. 

day ; your hours of trouble ; your clays of sick- 
ness ; and the sad seasons when you are obliged 
to think upon death. Do you feel a calmness of 
which dying cannot rob you? When you think 
of the house in which there is enough and to 
spare — when you think of the Father whose kind- 
ness is unparalleled — when you think of the peace 
that none can feel, save those whom Jesus has 
pardoned — when you think of privileges misim- 
proved, and of mercies slighted — when you think 
of the judgment-seat, where you must stand alone ; 
and of the severe trial, from which there is no ap- 
peal — when you think of an eternity, spent away 
from God, in a world of torment — tell me, are 
you happy ? 

'Tis but the .mockery of your grief, to call it 
by that sacred name. Happy, and a wanderer 
from God ! Happy, w r ith sin filling your hearts ! 
Happy, and an alien from the commonwealth of 
Israel ! Happy, going down to death with no 



THE CONDITION. 43 

preparation to meet it ! Happy, going up to the 
tribunal of the Judge without a friend ! It is a 
delusion. A sad and fatal error. 

But we will tell you when you can be happy. 
When you return with penitence to the Saviour, 
from whom you have departed. When you sit at 
His feet, clothed and in your right minds. When 
you are humble learners of Him, whose yoke is 
easy and whose burden is light. 



~j->j*j-j\^*tj-j\'w 



r^«*v\AAA.'^AA/u\."\/v\nr^'\A/\rjv 



THE RESOLUTION. 



Luke, 15 : 17, 18, 19. 
" and when he came to himself, he said, how many hired 

SERVANTS OP MY FATHER'S HAVE BREAD ENOUGH AND TO 
SPARE, AND I PERISH WITH HUNGER. I WILL ARISE AND 
GO TO MY FATHER, AND WILL SAY UNTO HIM, FATHER, 
I HAVE SINNED AGAINST HEAVEN AND BEFORE THEE, 
AND AM NO MORE WORTHY TO BE CALLED THY SON ; MAKE 
ME AS ONE OF THY HIRED SERVANTS." 



A S the precious ore lies embedded in the bow- 
els of the earth, so the real beauty of the 
Bible lies beneath the surface. As, in the one 
case, to obtain, we must dig; so, in the other, to 
discover, we must study. If, when w^e opened 
the Bible to read, we would observe this rule, we 
should be surprised at the amount of beauty, and 
the wondrous force contained, in almost every 



46 THE PRODIGAL SON. 

part. It is a lamentable fact, that the Bible is 
often an unmeaning book ; because it is glanced 
over — without proper attention and study. 

This beautiful parable is a case in point. If we 
open the Scriptures, at this place, and read the 
narrative of the prodigal son carelessly, without 
thinking of its design, or that which it is calculat- 
ed to teach, Ave shall not find very much to at- 
tract our attention. Wc shall see but few of its 
excellencies. Simply, a young man, tired of the 
restraints of home, and wishing to travel, demands 
of his father his portion, that he may gratify his 
inclination. Not having the advantage of expe- 
rience, and being viciously disposed, he falls into 
the company of those more wily than himself; 
loses his property and his character, and is oblig- 
ed to return home and live upon his parent. 
You all know that there are many such instances 
in our day. Let us, however, read this parable 
with fixed and prayerful attention ; with deep and 



THE RESOLUTION. 47 

unvarying care ; and we shall dig out a meaning 
that is unparalleled for beauty, for interest, and 
for importance. We shall find in it, feelings and 
operations that describe, with singular accuracy,, 
the emotions of our hearts, if ever we become- 
members of the household of faith. 

We ask your serious attention, for the subject- 
is worthy it, as for a season we dwell upon the 
prodigal's resolution. And we beg you to re- 
member, that, while we are endeavoring to ana- 
lyze the feelings that prompted him, in coming to- 
his determination, we shall also be bringing before 
you the exercises of every convicted person. 

We remark: 

First. — That consideration was contained in 
this resolution. 

This is evident from the words, "And when he- 
came to himself, he said: How many hired ser- 
vants of my father's have bread enough and to- 



48 THE PRODIGAL SON. 

spare, and I perish with hunger." Previously he 
•seems not to have given to his condition the least 
thought ; but to "have been as one deranged." 
And it was only when he came into such a piti- 
able state — when his necessities were so great as 
to be without apparel — without food — without 
health — without home — and without friends — that 
he came to himself, and his madness left him. 
He thought upon his way. He had time for re- 
flection. Faithfully did he ponder the past, the 
present, and the future. He compared the one 
with the other, and the result of that comparison 
was very unsatisfactory. 

In imagination, my friends, let us go nearer and 
look upon him, as his moral insanity is about de- 
parting, and he is coming to himself. You see 
him, as, many miles distant from the paternal roof, 
in his master's field, he stands alone by his swine. 
As he feels the gnawing of an unsatisfied hunger, 
and the burning of a feverish thirst ; as his eye 



THE RESOLUTION. 49 

wanders over his ragged apparel and his emaciat- 
ed person, he begins to consider ; he comes to 
himself. The moment he does it his thoughts 
are keenly alive, and they fl) r backward to better 
days, and to happier hours ; and he thinks what 
lie might have been, and what he is. 

Something after this manner he soliloquizes : 
" In my father's house there are many servants ; 
but all, even to the lowest, have bread enough and 
to spare. All are comfortably clothed, with am- 
ple accommodation, and without the necessity of 
apprehension for the future. But how different is 
it with me. Without friends ; without clothing - y 
without home, and without food. For I perish 
with hunger. Affairs have come to a mournful cri- 
sis. There is no way of bettering my condition, or 
of obtaining the means of relief. I know not to 
■whom I can go, or w r ho will give me assistance. 
I am on the lowest round of the ladder, at the 
very bottom of the hill. An exile from my father's 



-50 THE PEODIGAL SON. 

family, and a lone man in this far oft* wilderness. 
At the farthest, but a little season longer can I 
follow this degraded employment. Daily do I be- 
come weaker. Darker become my prospects. 
What shall Ido? 

" There is no alternative — I must perish. When, 
from exhaustion, I am unable to perform this mean 
work, none will look kindly upon me — none will 
give me a pillow for my weary head — none will 
give me a shelter from the driving storm, and 
none will watch by my couch of pain. My mas- 
ter, when I can serve him no longer, will turn me 
away. Then every resource will have foiled me, 
and in a far country and among strangers, I must 
die. Death, in the most melancholy circumstan- 
ces, is the only thing before me. What can I do ? 
How is it possible that I could so long remain 
blind to my condition? How could I so long 
sport upon the verge of ruin, and thought myself 
safe? Whither shall I go ? There is no place on 



THE RESOLUTION. 51 

earth to which I can go, save one ; and that is to 
the home of my childhood. 

"But will my father, whom I have so much 
grieved, pardon me ? I know not. I have wil- 
fully disappointed his expectations, and opposed 
his most cherished wishes. Every resource fails 
me. Every hope leaves me. I feel almost ready 
to give up to despair. Yet, reduced to the lowest 
depths of indigence, and with darkness all around 
me, I am almost determined to return — for dreamy 
memories of happier hours come as a balm to my 
wounded soul. One thing is certain. My condi- 
tion cannot possibly be worse than it is. If I stay 
where I am, a sad and bitter death must be my 
doom. And I cannot more than die, if I return 
and my efforts at reconciliation with my parent 
are unsuccessful. Besides, I would sooner die, 
with my eyes resting upon the abode of my child- 
hood — with my father's name faltering upon my 
tongue — and with my father's hand clasped in 



52 THE PKODIGAL SON. 

mine, than die alone, unpitied and unwept, any- 
where else in this cold world. 

" Though fallen, and only the wreck of what I 
was; though without the least claim upon my pa- 
rent's love ; -whatever the result may be ; whether 
I meet with affection or hatred, I am resolved: 
— lie ill go." 

When he began thus to consider, how soon his 
resolution was formed. In what different light 
this determination caused him to see things. When 
he began to reflect, he began to be alarmed. The 
longer he thought, the greater his alarm became. 
Truly, if he had never thought — never reflected — 
never considered — he had never come to the reso- 
lution he did. It was sober, serious thought, that 
made the prodigal's exile irksome, and that begat 
the resolution to arise and go to his father. 

My friends, we cannot tell you all the won- 
drous beauty ; the depth of meaning ; and the 



THE RESOLUTION. 53 

great importance, which this part of the subject 
presents to us. The prodigal, in this part of his 
career, is a life-like picture of the heavy-laden 
soul, when the arrow of conviction is beginning 
to wound. The thoughts, and feelings, and ago- 
nies, of the anxious heart, are here described with 
singular accuracy. No one ever passes from death 
unto life who does not see his danger. Nor does 
any one ever become alarmed for his state unless 
lie reflect. Consideration, therefore, is the first 
step " toward conversion." 

Xo one ever became a new creature in Jesus, 
who did not first reflect. Every sinner, like the 
prodigal, must first needs come to himself; as 
every sinner, like the prodigal, is laboring under 
a species of derangement on the subject of per- 
sonal religion. And, though he may previously 
have thought himself rich, and increased in goods, 
and having need of nothing; when he begins to 
consider, he finds that he is poor, and miserable, 



54 THE PRODIGAL SON. 

and blind, and naked, and having need of every- 
thing. Like the prodigal, he makes the discovery 
that his condition is alarmingly dangerous. He 
trembles to find not a single resource, where, be- 
fore, he supposed there were many. Every com- 
fort in which he hoped is gone. Every staff upon 
which he depended is broken. 

He considers the law; but the law condemns 
him. He cannot fulfil one of its numberless re- 
quirements; and justice frowns upon him, let him 
look to what part of the decalogue he may. 
He considers the character of his master; and, 
like the younger son of the parable, he feels that 
no reliance can be placed upon him; that amid his 
sorrows he will not give him relief; and that, in 
the hour of his extremity he will turn him away. 
He considers the character of his life, and he finds 
nothing to approve, but everything to condemn. 
He considers the character of the God from whom 
he has departed, and because of his sinfulness, he 



THE RESOLUTION. DO 

sees not a ray of hope, as uncompromising justice 
is enthroned upon the brow of the great Law- 
giver, tie feels that in his Father's house there 
is plenty, and perpetual happiness; but that he 
has forfeited all claim upon the one, or right to 
the other. He looks without ; and on every side 
there is darkness and despair. He looks within, 
and there is no calmness, nor peace, nor happi- 
ness. Law and conscienco, life and God, all con- 
demn him. 

Thus considering, he feels that something must 
be done right speedily. That every moment's 
delay but ten-fold increases the danger. That but 
a little season more, and he shall be beyond hope. 
As he thinks and meditates, everything is dark 
and alarming. "What shall I do to be saved?" 
is the bitter cry that breaks from his tortured bo- 
som. He feels that should he remain where he is, 
he must be lost. And he knows, as well, that no 
one can give him assistance. 



50 THE PRODIGAL 80 X. 

Yes, there is One who can take the burden 
from his shoulders, and the grief from his heart. 
There is One who can do all for him that his 
circumstances require ; and who can direct him 
in the road to heaven. " But will He receive me? 
I have grieved Him so much, and sinned against 
Him so long. I fear that He will not, cannot par- 
don me." He considers farther : " There is no one 
save He that will love me. There is no arm, save 
His, that can sustain me. If I remain in my pres- 
ent state I must perish. And I can no more than 
perish if I go. Besides, if I must die, I would 
sooner do it, with my eyes resting upon Calvary, 
that dear, hallowed spot — that deathless pledge 
of the world's redemption from everlasting woe, 
as their last object; praying and begging for par- 
don ; than expire far from Calvary, with no prayer 
upon my tongue. Whatever the result may be, 
as I have nothing to lose, but everything to gain, 

I Will IK)." 



THE RESOLUTION'. 5 7 



You see how much consideration has to do with 

the resolution. Xo man ever really made it, who 
did not first think. And when once well consid- 
ered, he formed the resolution. These feelings 
have a lodgement in the sinner's heart, when con- 
viction begins. This resolution, therefore, is the 
important, the almost turning point, toward a 
change of heart. It is the first step toward the 
narrow way, that begins in the city of destruc- 
tion, and that ends in the Jerusalem above. 

We remark : 

Second. — That a fixed determination^ entered 
into this resolution. 

This is evident from the words, " I will arise 
and go to my father." This mode of expression 
is common among men. In the prodigal's case, it 
'"denoted entering on a piece of business.' 1 It 
means " that he had firmly resolved to return im- 
mediately."' He had considered well his condi- 



58 THE PRODIGAL SOX. 

tion. Pie had looked upon it in every light, lie 
had weighed every plan. He had clung to every 
hope ; until it were madness to do it longer. A 
false and dangerous pride had prompted him to 
contrive every Avay to remain, lie resolved that 
he would do anything, rather than return to his 
parent, and crave the shelter of his roof. When, 
however, he had thought of every method, and 
all seemed equally useless ; stern and imperious 
necessity impelled him to act as he did. 

But when once his resolution was taken, his 
mind was determinately fixed, nothing could 
change it. Nothing could even cause it to waver. 
He thought not, and cared not, what others might 
think, or say, or do. How his departure might 
atfect his master, does not seem to have troubled 
him at all. It is true, when he thought of the 
difficulties of the way; when he looked upon his 
altered appearance, and upon his dirty and rag- 
ged apparel, he doubted and feared. These doubts 



THE RESOLUTION. 



and fears troubled and perplexed him, from the 
moment he set oat on his journey, till his parent 
held him in his arms, and whispered forgiveness 
to his troubled soul. But his misgivings did not 
cause his purpose to waver. Go he would, though 
his suit should be denied, and he should be turn- 
ed from his father's door to die. 

From the moment his resolution was taken, his 
father, his father's house, and the reception with 
which he would be likely to meet, were the 
thoughts that most engrossed his attention. As 
he laid him down upon his comfortless bed, it was 
the last subject upon which he thought. When 
he opened his eyes upon the morrow it was the 
first thing in his mind. If, at any time, his ears 
were assailed by those who wished to discourage, 
he stopped them that he might not hear. Nei- 
ther temptation, nor ridicule, nor discouragement, 
could make a lasting impression upon that iron 
will. His heart, his desire, and his gaze were 



60 THE PRODIGAL SOX. 



homeward, "Thither will I go," was; the lan- 
guage of his heart. 

Look upon the prodigal as he stands in his mas- 
ters field — think of his past and his present — nar- 
rowly scan his anxious, troubled countenance, and 
you must feel that his purpose was fixed; as all 
his hopes of happiness centred upon its execution. 

How strictly correct is all this, touching the 
convicted sinner. The same fixedness of purpose 
is possessed by every one who reaches heaven, and 
sits down within the limits of the glorious inheri- 
tance. Every convicted sinner, before lie forms 
this resolution, considers long and deeply his con- 
dition. He tries every means and clings to every 
hope. When, therefore, it is taken, relying upon 
the Spirit for strength, it is adhered to with the 
most rigid tenacity. 

Associates may ridicule, and friends may say 
this thing or that, yet his only answer is, "I loill 



THE RESOLUTION. 61 

go." It they strive to shame him out of his reso- 
lution, yet is he the more determined to persevere. 
If they bring up the difficulties with which he 
must contend, and the probability that, after all, 
his suit will not be successful, yet does he not de- 
spair. He may be discouraged, but not entirely 
cast down. He knows that he is an alien from 
God ; and his doubts of final acceptance at times 
make him dispirited. Yet does he tell of the crown 
with which he hopes to be crowned; and of the 
spotless robe with which he hopes to be attired. 
It is manifestly true, that where God has begun 
a good work, He will carry it on till the day of 
Jesus Christ. It is as certainly the case, then, 
that where the arrow has been driven by the 
Master, there will be fixedness of purpose. 

We remark : 

Ihird. — That humility entered into this resolu- 
tion. 



62 TUB PRODIGAL SON. 



This is distinctly shown in the words, " Father, 
I have sinned against heaven and before thee, and 
am no more worthy to be called thy son ; make 
me as one of thy hired servants." What deep 
humility ! How different the spirit of the prodi- 
gal departing, and the spirit of the prodigal re- 
turning. In the one case, there was a haughty 
demand for his portion. In the other, a humble 
craving for the humblest place in his father's house- 
hold. "I am not worthy to be called thy son. 
I am not worthy to be taken to thy bosom. Make 
me as one of thy hired servants ; and because it 
will be so much better than I deserve, I will be 
content. I come to you as the last resource, and 
if I fail, my misery will be greater than I can 
bear." Though haggard and with ragged appar- 
el — a wandering mendicant, yet the spirit of the 
prodigal, returning, was heavenly, compared with 
the spirit of the prodigal departing. 

Thus, there is no sinner who comes to his Father, 



THE RESOLUTION. 03 

who does not have the same feelings of humility. 
Every one who comes rightfully, feels thus un- 
worthy ; feels the same willingness to be treated 
as the lowest in Christ's household. There is no 
place for pride in the bosom of him who is really 
penitent. The principle that is so obnoxious to 
God, can flourish anywhere else better than near 
the valley of contrition. Humility — a deep self- 
abasement — is the most prominent feeling of the 
weary and heavy-laden soul. " Only let me be- 
come a member of your household, and an heir of 
glory ; and the terms you may dictate. Let rne 
be the lowest of all who shall hereafter stand upon 
the heavenly Mount Zion ; only do not turn me 
away, and I am content." On this point, all anx- 
ious souls agree. When one resolves to be a 
Christian, he does it with humility, but with a 
firm purpose, relying entirely upon the Saviour. 

We said that the subject is interesting, and so 
indeed it is ; as it has brought us to a considera- 



THE PRODIGAL SOX. 



tion of the feelings and exercises of the sinner 
when he comes to himself. Are we travelling 
this road? If we are not, let us hasten to enter 
it. It will lead us to happiness, to glory, and to 
God. It will place us among the number of those 
who weep now, that hereafter we may be glad 
and rejoice. It will give us a membership in our 
Father's household, and a place in our Father's 
bosom. 



THE RETURN. 



Luke, 15 : 20. 

" axd uk arose, and came to his father." 
TTAOUBTLESS, the most of us, at some time or 

another during life, have looked upon a land- 
scape which at first seemed almost entirely desti- 
tute of either interest or beauty. But, as we ad- 
vanced toward it, and studied it more attentively, 
ironi seeming ordinary, it has become beautiful, 
and our interest in it has become absorbing. My 
friends, we have thought that to something like 
this landscape, we could liken this parable. That 
which to some, in the beginning, might seem un- 
interesting, as we advance, step by step, and medi- 
tate more deeply upon its great truths, is found 
to be possessed not only of interest, but of real 



60 THE PKODIGAL SON. 

worth. In truth, wo cannot imagine how it could 
well be otherwise. 

The prodigal is presented to us in so many as- 
pects, and they are all so applicable, that almost, 
unconsciously, but quite naturally, they awaken 
a lively interest. Spiritually, there is no respect 
in which this parable is not worthy to be deeply 
and prayerfully studied by every class. By him, 
who is yet in the gall of bitterness and in the 
bonds of iniquity, that he may see the way over 
which he must travel, if ever lie return to his Fa- 
ther's house a penitent, and experience his Father's 
everlasting kindness. By him who has tied to 
Jesus, as the only refuge from the wrath to come, 
that he may again think upon the way along 
which lie traveled, when he started on his pilgrim- 
age to the celestial city. 

We last considered the prodigal's resolution" to 
arise and go to his lather. We come, to-night, 



THE RETURN. 67 

to dwell upon the practical part of that resolution 
— its execution. You will carefully remark, that 
had he not formed the resolution, he would never 
have returned. Notwithstanding, the resolution 
would have been of no avail, unless put into prac- 
tical operation, he might have resolved, and re- 
solved, and had he been content with this, he 
would have died of starvation, as a poor s wine- 
feeder in his master's field. The simple resolution 
to go, and not putting it in practice, would be the 
same as saying to our famished and half-clothed 
neighbor, " be ye clothed, or fed," without mak- 
ing the least effort to do either the one or the othe.* 

There must be action. There must be a carry- 
ing into effect that which we have resolved to per- 
form. We take it, that the prodigal's returning- 
to his father's house, was the practical operation: 
of the resolution to which he had come. 

At this particular point, there is a most impor- 



138 THE PRODIGAL SON. 

taut thought, to which, in passing, we would brief- 
ly refer. A person may resolve that he will for- 
sake some injurious habit; or become a better 
man; or not grieve the Spirit. If, however, lie 
stops here, it will not benefit him. 

We do not doubt that there are many souls in 
perdition, who went thither with scores of reso- 
lutions unperformed. .And we believe that there 
is not a single impenitent person, here, who has 
not often promised himself, yea, most solemnly 
resolved, that lie would be a Christian ; but not 
putting the resolution into practice, is as far from 
God to-day, as he was months since. 

There is nothing more important than this. It 
is indispensable ; and the hinge to which is attach- 
ed the eternal happiness or misery of hundreds 
and of thousands. Oh, then, remember that mere 
resolving will never save one. There must be 
something more than this. There must be doing 



THE 1JETURN. GO 

as well as thinking. It was that, as well as this, 
that brought the prodigal a humble penitent to 
his father's door. It is this, which shall at last 
open the gates of heaven to the returning sinner, 
and give him a seat among the sanctified. 

In the discussion of the subject farther, we 
remark: 

First. — That in returning, the prodigal acted 
voluntarily. This is evident from the words, "and 
he arose and came to his father," distinctly im- 
plying, that he was not influenced by foreign in- 
terference. He had thought well and deeply upon 
the matter, and he had deliberately concluded that 
such a course would be best. This was, however, 
after he was most painfully convinced that every 
other means would not give him the slightest re- 
lief. The very first step in his homeward jour- 
ney was unrestrained, so far as the freedom of his 
will was concerned. His actions were as free as 
are the footsteps of the wild deer in his native 



70 THE PRODIGAL SOX. 

forest, or the soarings of the eagle in his upward 
flight. 

This is rendered doubly manifest from the fact 
that the prodigal's condition was, to a degree, an 
isolated one. lie scarcely had one with whom to 
communicate ; much less one by whom to be in- 
fluenced. As alone he experienced his misery — so 
alone he resolved to free himself from it. 

My friends, we conceive this thought to be one 
of immense importance. Repentance, — the re- 
turning of the sinner to God, — is a perfectly vol- 
untary act. It is true, that no man can come un- 
to the Saviour, except the Father draw him. It 
is true, Oh, how true ! that, in the matter of sal- 
vation, without Jesus we can do nothing, Yet 
is it the case, that it is our duty to strive, just as 
much as if the gaining a seat in heaven depended 
on our own exertion. 

On this point Ave desire to bring before you an 



THE RETURN. 71 

illustration, in which we shall, in part, avail our- 
selves of the thoughts of another. A man, for 
instance, chooses what appears to him to be best. 
In one sense, " you may call it a necessary choice. 
On the principle that his great object is to please 
himself. And to suppose that he would have any 
other object than pleasing himself, is absurd." 
It is, moreover, an absolute impossibility ; as it 
would be supposing him "to will and not to will, 
at the same time." His volition is perfectly free, 
as in doing what he does, he deliberates and 
chooses, without recognizing the interference of 
any foreign cause. But " this willingness is the 
consequence of the view which his mind takes of 
the object before him." iSTow apply this to the 
subject before us. 

When a man returns to God, he follows the in" 
clination of his own will, as certainly and as en- 
tirely as at any other time. Previously to this, 
he followed the inclination which led him to do 



72 THE PRODIGAL SON. 

wrong. Subsequently to this, he followed the in 
clination which led him to do right. And could 
you say there was less of freedom, or choice, in 
the one ease than in the other'? Surely not. 

You will remark, however, that, in the one case 
as well as in the other, "it is the view which his 
mind takes of the object," that leads him to the 
choice. Now, it is God who, in a way mysterious 
to us, so operates upon the man's mind that he 
takes such a view of the object. Yet, "when he 
does it, the man does not feel that he is in th< 
least restrained, or that he is acting under voli- 
tions produced by foreign causes, 1 ' any more than 
when he wills to leave his house, or sits down at 
his table. He acts so naturally and so freely, that 
when his mind takes this impression, he has node- 
sire to inquire into the source from which it comes. 

God implants in the heart of the sinner the dis- 
position to return to Him ; but the way is so hid- 



THE RETURN. 73 

den and mysterious, that the sinner voluntarily 
follows the inclination which this implantation 
produces. This is what we mean by free moral 
agency. This is what we mean by a man's acting 
voluntarily. 

We say, then, that true repentance, — the return- 
ing of the sinner to God, — is a perfectly volun- 
tary act. That the sinner, in doing it, follows the 
inclination of his own will, as much as the prodi- 
gal when he returned, a penitent wanderer, to his 
father's door. Repentance is the practical opera- 
tion of the purpose of the sinner to go ; ' ; and he 
cheerfully and cordially arises and. goes." " Choose 
ye this day, whom ye will serve." Work out 
your own salvation with fear and. trembling ; for 
it is God which worketh in you, both to will and 
to do of his own good pleasure." The gates of 
the celestial city stand open, night and day, to 
every humble and sincere inquirer. But none en- 
ter them against their will. The Saviour is ever 



/4 THE PEODIGAL SOX. 

ready to receive the returning prodigal ; but He 
will not compel any to come against their incli- 
nation. 

It is a truth, however, for which we are thank- 
ful, that God's people are " willing in the day of 
his power." That when they have wandered long 
upon the mountains of sin; when they have felt 
the inability of the world to confer enjoyment; 
when they see their danger, and know that only 
Jesus can save them; then, as the prodigal, they 
arise and go to their Father, 

We remark : 

Second. — That in returning, the prodigal began 
his journey immediately. We are nowhere dis- 
tinctly told that this is the case, yet we feel war- 
ranted in drawing the inference from the entire 
narrative. "And when he came to himself, he 
said, how many hired servants of my father's 
have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with 



THE RETURN. tb 

hunger. I will arise and go to my father. And 
he arose and came to his father." It is evident, 
that, immediately after he formed the resolution, 
he proceeded to carry it into effect. Taking into 
account the loneliness of his situation, and the ex- 
tremity of his poverty, we can imagine that many 
considerations operated upon his mind, in coming 
to the determination he did, and in causing him 
to put it in force forthwith. He weighed the mat- 
ter well. He counted the cost. He thought of 
the whole thing, in its length, and breadth, and 
height, and depth. 

He viewed the subject in every light of which 
it was capable. And having determined that this 
was the proper course, without waiting for coun- 
ter influences to produce a reaction — or his ardor 
to cool, or his noble resolve to weaken, he began 
his homeward journey. He closed with his con- 
viction and improved it. He gave no opportunity 
for a change of purpose. AThile his thoughts were 



76 THE PRODIGAL SON. 

around the home of his childhood, he was making 
the preparation to go. 

My friends, this putting his resolution into im- 
mediate effect, under God, was the only thing that 
saved him. This was the important step, connect- 
ed with which were long years of happiness to 
the prodigal. Who can tell of the consequences 
had he not thus acted? Who can tell how early 
his earthly sun would have set, and in what dark 
clouds? Had he not started then, doubtless he 
would never have seen his father's door; but his 
uncoftined bones would have been left to bleach, 
in some quiet corner of that far oft* country. 
Though his memory would have been cherished 
in his father's heart, it would have been forgotten 
by his master. 

When he saw his real condition, he was convin- 
ced that what was to be done could most proper- 
ly be done then. He did not say, " another time 



THE RETURN'. i i 

will be more convenient, and will suit my purpose 
better: I, therefore, will defer my journey." If 
he had, as we observed a moment since, he would 
have lived an exile from his fathers family, and 
died an unknown and unpitied beggar, in a distant 
country. That convenient season would never 
have come ; and a dreamy existence, of what might 
have been his future, would have been all that he 
could ever enjoy. 

Do you not think that the prodigal, after he 
became again a resident of his father's house, and 
a member of his father's household, often had his 
heart filled with joy, that he was thus able im- 
mediately to practice that upon which he had re- 
solved ? 

To this part of the prodigal's history, my im- 
penitent friends, would we call your most earnest 
attention. It is replete with most important in- 
struction. In truth there is nothing which has 



THE PKODIGAL SOH- 



a greater personal interest to those who are jour- 
neying' to the grave and to the judgment-seat. 

If putting our resolution into effect, be the hinge 
iipon which our eternal happiness or misery turns, 
putting it into immediate execution, is a hinge 
within the other. It is around this point, that the 
difficulties centre of becoming a Christian. It is 
not that you do not resolve ; it is that you do not 
carry your resolution immediately into effect. It 
Is not that the Spirit does not strive ; it is that 
you tamper with these gracious strivings. It is 
because you keep resolving, and deferring, that 
you are in danger of missing heaven. 

Immediately, how great the meaning ! In this 
respect, it is a " volume in a word." To how 
many is the term in the other world fraught with 
most mournful memories. To how many is it the 
scorpion's sting To how many is it the gall 
which they must drink, through the long rayless 



THE 11ETURN. 79 

night of eternal death, shut up in their gloomy 
residence. Immediately ! My friends, it were 
easy to conceive, that there is many a vacant seat 
in Paradise, many a harp without an owner, and 
many a long flowing robe of white hanging in the 
wardrobe of the great King, because of not escap- 
ing immediately from the cities of the plain, and 
fleeing to the place of refuge which Jesus has kind- 
ly provided. So I can readily imagine, that there is 
many a prodigal returned — many a wanderer 
brought home — many an exile welcomed to his 
father's door; and, Oh, how many who shall be 
radiant gems in the mediatorial crown of Jesus, 
because that, at once, they carried the resolution 
into effect, by starting in their pilgrimage for the 
Celestial City. 

I went to the old man of venerable appearance 
and of trembling form, who was traveling in the 
road to death. I asked him why it was, that, as 
his journey was nearly ended, he was not a pilgrim 



SO THE PRODIGAL SOX. 

of Zion. And with a trembling voice and deep 
solemnity, he said it was because he did not step 
into the pool while the water was troubled, Care- 
fully I went to the bedside of the dying Christian, 
and as he was calmly and sweetly breathing away 
his life, I asked him of his yjast, his present, and 
his future. He said that, under God, the improve- 
ment of the present was all that saved him. Be- 
cause immediately he arose and went to his Father, 
was the only reason why he indulged the hope of 
one day becoming a resident of the Christian's 
home in glory. 

My friends, we can bring witnesses to the worth 
of the present from the gloomy chambers of the 
dead, and from the pleasant courts of the bright 
world beyond the visible heavens. We can ap- 
peal for its worth to the hoary-headed sinner, and 
to him of silvery locks found in the way of right- 
eousness. Evidences of its great importance gath- 
er around the death-bed of the sinner, and of the 
child of t^race. 



THE KETUltN. 81 

We suppose, my friends, that there is not one 
in this assembly who has not been convicted of 
sin ; who has not had the Spirit to strive with him. 
It is as much our privilege as it was the prodigal's, 
to return home. 

In looking over those before me, 1 see some who 
have returned to their Father ; but more who have 
not. Upon what principle will you account for 
it, other than not immediately closing with con- 
viction? While convinced as to your duty, you 
kept deliberating, and arguing the point with 
yourselves, until the Spirit departed, and convic- 
tion ceased. When do you expect to arise and go 
to your Father ? When do you expect to be per- 
fectly ready ? What conviction do you intend to 
improve ? 

In this case, as well as in others, it is proper to 
judge of the future by the past. Judging by the 
past, when do you think the season will come 



82 THE PKODIGAL SON. 

when you will be all prepared to resolve and car- 
ry your resolution immediately into effect? Do 
yon not think, that the same delay, and indecision, 
and tampering, Avill attend your future convic- 
tions that have attended your past ? Will not the 
same arguments that have triumphed over you 
once, conquer you again ? Do you not know that 
he who gives way to one temptation, is the more 
easily overcome when he endeavors to resist the 
second? So he, who for years has been resolving, 
and never acting, has but uncertain ground of 
confidence that he will faithfully attend to the 
matter in the future? 

The truth is, my friends, the longer you act 
with this irresolution, the harder you will find it 
to do differently. Judging by the past, you know- 
that when your next, and next conviction shall 
come, you will be no more ready than you are 
now. Besides, there is danger in delay. It is 
hazardous to trifle with the strivings of the Spirit. 



THE RETURN. 83 

It is perilous to trifle with the sacred things of 
God. Do you not know, that if you ever become 
Christians, you must go to Jesus ? Why not go 
now, as well as at some indefinite time in the future- 
It is wonderful, that when the pearl of great 
price is within your reach, you will hesitate to 
take it. It is astonishing, that you are, content 
to travel in the road to death, when heaven and 
all its glories might be yours. It is sad, that you 
are content to be wanderers in a far country, 
when your Father would take you into his house- 
hold, and eneircle you in his arms. Had the prod- 
igal deferred his return, till through weakness he 
was unable to perform the journey, the remaining 
days of his life would have been filled with sor- 
row and bitter regrets. If you defer repentance 
too long, it will overshadow the closing hours of 
life with trouble and terrible forebodings of the 
future. 

Think of all the prodigal's return did for him ; 



84 THE PRODIGAL SON'. 

that it restored him to his father's household, and 
to his father's arms, and filled his last days with 
happiness. Go thou and do likewise. As he re- 
turned to his home, so do you return to that of 
which his'was only a type. As was the case with 
him, so shall it be with you. Your closing hours 
will be calm, and heaven will open all its glories 
to you, when you shall have seen thelast of earth 



THE RECEPTION. 



Like, 15 : 20. 

" But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw 
hijt, and had compassion, and ran" and fell on his 
neck and kissed iiim." 

nnilE Bible, is wonderfully, the book for the 
fallen. There is not a truth which it con- 
tains, that is not applicable, at some time or an- 
other, during our pilgrimage. Xot only does it 
teach us our duty, but it so truthfully sets before 
us human nature in its various phases, that we 
may be ever learning. 

The parable, upon which, for successive Sab- 
bath evenings we have meditated, is a striking 
exemplification of the principle of which we speak 
— its adaptation to man in all the relations which 
he sustains. The vastness of Bible knowledge is 




86 THE PRODIGAL SOX. 



wonderful. Though studying its truths from a 
different stand-point, still they are attractive. 

In this parable the scene is changed, yet is it 
profitable to study. Previously the son has been 
the actor, and we have seen him, in different guis- 
es and in various situations. In all, however, his 
example has been beneficial, and his sad expe- 
rience of inestimable worth. We have learned 
lessons from his entire history, upon which we 
may meditate with profit, till the closing hour of 
life. As in a mirror, he has shown us our wander- 
ings ; and, like Christian in his pilgrimage, he has 
marked out the way, by which we must return. 

Now, however, the scene is changed ; and the 
father is brought more prominently before us. 
The father's actions are rendered the more inter- 
esting, in that we may see in them the actions of 
our heavenly Father toward us. A thousand con- 
siderations tend to render this subject deeply in- 



THE RECEPTION. 87 

teresting. As we have wandered from our Fa- 
ther's household, as we need his forgiveness be- 
fore we can be happy, must not everything con- 
nected with the parent's course toward his son, 
be hailed with satisfaction, and the liveliest joy. 

To the exile, no name is so interesting and dear 
as home. To the captive no theme is so pleasant, 
and so delightful as freedom. To the criminal 
every subject is dull when compared with pardon. 
We are exiles far from home. We are captives 
bound with fetters. We are criminals, sentenced 
to everlasting death. Is not that, which tells us 
how we may again get home ; which puts into 
our hands the key that unlocks our fetters ; which 
obtains for us our reprieve from eternal death,, 
deeply important ? It is. There is nothing with 
which you you can compare it, that will not show 
its worth the more. 

To-night we dwell upon that subject. You re- 



8S THE PRODIGAL SnX. 

quire not to be told, that the father's receiving 
the wayward but penitent son, is a beautiful and 
impressive image of our Father opening his arms 
to the returning sinner ; affectionately inviting 
him to recline upon his bosom, that thus he may 
find u refuge from the terrors of the law, and the 
trouble of conscience. We can then, with reason, 
ask your very serious attention, as we dwell upon 
the prodigal's reception by his father. 

We remark: 

First. — That his father received him wiUingly. 
This is evident from the words, "But when he 
was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and 
had compassion on him." T hese words show the 
very flower of willingness. They show a bosom 
alive to the kindest emotions of the human heart. 
The parent did not wait for the son to come, and 
with humble confessions, and with solemn promi- 
ses, beg that he would again receive him into his 
household. lie did not upbraid him for the life 



THE RECEPTION. 89 

he had lived, and for the mournful depth to which, 
in consequence, he had fallen. But lie ran to 
meet him, folded him in his arms, and kissed away 
the tears that were running down his pale, thin 
face. How beautiful — how affecting — how sug- 
gestive, the first interview between the father and 
his repentant son. 

In your imagination, picture a long, wide, 
straight avenue; at one end of which, by a primi- 
tive mansion, stands a benign countenanced and 
Venerable man. As he stands thus, thinking per- 
haps of his absent son, his attention is attracted 
by something distant coming slowly toward him. 
It approaches, and he ascertains it to be a man. 
He looks with steadfast gaze upon the approach- 
ing traveller, and discovers him to be a man, thin, 
emaciated, and all in rags. He advances nearer, 
and the old man recognizes the features of his 
long absent, but ever remembered son, in that 
forlorn, and wretched, wandering beggar. And 



90 THE PRODIGAL SOX. 

simultaneously with the recognition, are brought 
into activity the kindly feelings of his heart. 

He did not wait for his child to approach, but 
heedless of the distance, and unmindful of his age, 
he ran to meet him. You could not think of any- 
thing, that would heighten the beauty of the pic- 
ture, and make it more precious to the wandering 
sinner. How perfectly natural it is. When the 
recognition takes place, paternal feelings having 
the ascendancy in the father's bosom, he runs to 
meet his child. While the son, on the other hand, 
filled with shame for his conduct, and doubtful 
Avhether he shall be received and pardoned, comes 
with slow and hesitating step. The father, as if 
divining his thoughts, runs as fast as he can to 
meet him, that he may put an end to his doubts, 
and remove all his perplexities. And when at 
length they met, in that broad avenue, there was 
no word of reproach spoken, and no indications 
of wishes ungratined, and of feelings wounded. 



THE RECEPTION. 91 



The past was forgotten in present joy, and the 
proud departure was merged in the penitent re- 
turn. He fell upon his neck and kissed him. How 
touchingly beautiful — how thrillingly eloquent! 

This tender reception is really the point of the 
parable, which Jesus wished to impress upon the 
minds of his auditors. And who shall say, that 
He did not do it well ? Who could blame that 
father for receiving his son? Who, then, could 
be dissatisfied with Jesus, for pardoning the re- 
turning sinner? 

This part of the prodigal's history, my impeni- 
tent friends, to you is replete with instruction. 
It teaches one of the most precious truths to be 
found in the Bible. It has brought comfort to 
many who were disconsolate. And there are 
none whom it does not encourage to hope. In the 
fathers running, and having compassion on his 
son, and folding him in his arms, you have a most 



92 THE PRODIGAL SON. 

expressive figure, to show the willingness of the 
Saviour, to receive all who will come unto Him. 
Did the father stand with open arms to receive 
his repentant son ? So the Redeemer stands with 
open arms, and a generous, loving heart, and says, 
"If any man thirst, let him come unto me and 
drink; if any man weary, let him come unto me 
and rest." He will willingly receive all, not as 
hired servants, but as sons and daughters. " Come, 
and I will be a Father unto you, and you shall be 
my sons and daughters. Come, and your sins and 
your transgressions shall be remembered no more, 
and your iniquities shall all be blotted out." 

It is one of the recommendatory features of the 
Gospel, that it makes known the Saviour's readi- 
ness to receive all who come to Him, with broken 
and contrite heart*. In what age or clime has it 
happened that any were desirous of coming to the 
Saviour, whom the Saviour was not willing to ac- 
cept ? Who ever properly sought, who did not 



TUG 11GCEPTIOX. 9'?" 



find? Who ever earnestly knocked at the door 
of mercy, to whom that door was not willingly 
opened ? The dying thief, who hung beside the 
Saviour on Calvary, was anxious to return, and 
the suffering Saviour was willing to receive him,. 
Persecuting Saul came, and though his hands 
were stained with the blood of the martyred Ste- 
phen, he was kindly and willingly accepted. 
Mary Magdalene, from whom seven devils were 
cast, was not coldly repulsed ; but being gracious- 
ly received, with heaven upon her countenance, 
and with glory in her heart, she sat, a meek and 
lovely learner, at her Redeemer's feet. Peter, 
who with curses, denied his Master in the judg- 
ment Hall, was fully and tenderly forgiven. Dav- 
id, with a double sin upon his heart, was taken 
again into favor. Some, who to-night in glory y 
wear the whitest robe, and the most radiant crown, 
and who occupy the highest seats in the heavenly 
synagogue, were taken from the lowest dens of 



•5)4 THE PRODIGAL SOX. 

infamy and vice ; yet Jesus kindly welcomed them ; 
the Saviour is willing to receive the penitent sinner. 

It cannot be otherwise, while the economy of 
the Gospel remains as it is. Every word that 
the Redeemer uttered teaches it. Every act that 
He performed, from the moment that He laid aside 
His sceptre and His crown, in His own peculiar 
habitation, till He went up, as the peerless con- 
queror of death, to take them up again, shows it 
as distinctly as if written with a sun-beam. On 
this point, there cannot be the shadow of a 
doubt. For us He gave His back to the smiter, 
and His body to the cross. For our return He 
stands watching, till the cold night wind has chill- 
ed His frame, and the dew-drops hang from His 
Jocks. 

We remark : 

Second. — That his father received him tenderly. 
'This is evident from the words, "had compas- 



THE KECEPTIOX. »» 

sion on him, and ran, and fell on his neck." It 
was much to have looked upon him with the eye ; 
more to have taken him by the hand ; but, most 
of all, to fall upon his neck. " The delicateness 
of the meeting scenes, proves this to have been 
true. Tenderness, certainly, there was ! That, 
though guilty and deserving to be beaten, though 
dirty, and newly come from feeding swine, he 
would take him into his arms and lay him upon 
his bosom." His poverty, his rags, his dirt, and 
his misdemeanors, were all forgotten and forgiven ; 
and the warmth of his reception was so great, 
that, long unused to kindness, lie was quite over- 
come. 

If you think of all the circumstances, you shall 
find that there was much that might have made 
the father hesitate before giving his consent, even 
to his son's return. And when you think that, 
when poor, and pale, and ragged from his excess- 
es, his father saw him, and ran to meet him, and 



9G TUE PKODIGAL SON. 

instead of upbraiding him for his conduct, fell 
upon his neck and kissed him, you cannot but see 
that compassion filled his bosom. 

There are many tilings connected with the re- 
ception, that render it apparent that it was won- 
derfully kind, and touchingly tender. We are 
accustomed to think that there was something 
very touching, in the meeting between the patri- 
arch Jacob and his illustrious son. So, indeed, 
there was. Bnt Joseph was the son of Jacob's 
old age, and his favorite child. Instead of going 
voluntarily from home, he had been torn away by 
treachery. Through the long years of painful 
slavery, he had so demeaned himself as to win 
the respect of men, and the approbation of God. 
And when at length he set out from Pharoah'p 
court, it was to meet one greatly his inferior in 
station. 

While Jacob felt that, in beholding his son, he 
should look upon his preserver; and one whom 



THE RECEPTION. 97 

God bad raised up for Pharoah, to "bind his prin- 
ces at his pleasure, and leach his senators wisdom." 
It could not well have been otherwise, that when 
at length they met, upon the beautiful plains of 
Goshen, a thousand memories should come into 
the bosoms of father and son, to render the first 
interview of long and eventful years, pregnant 
with the tenderest emotions. AVhen they lifted 
up their voices and wept, it was just what we 
should have expected. When the patriarch clasp- 
ed his long lost, but ever remembered son, in his 
withered arms, and bedewed his face with the 
tears of parental love, we feel that it was perfect- 
ly natural. 

But how different from this was the case before 
us. Instead of the prodigal's having done nothing 
to wound the heart of his father, he had done 
everything. Instead of having risen to eminence, 
he had sunk to a mournful and base obscurity. 
Instead of riding in a chariot, clothed with royal 



98 THE PRODIGAL SOS. 



robes, and attended by a numerous retinue, he 
came on foot and alone, and in rags and poverty. 
Instead of being a comfort, he was a discomfort ; 
instead of being an honor, he was a dishonor. 
He had done everything to bring the gray hairs 
of his father with sorrow to the grave. Tender- 
ness of heart, is never shown anywhere on this 
cold earth, if it did not well up in the bosom of 
that old man, as he ran and fell upon the neck of 
his wandering but repentant son. 

]\Iy impenitent friends, this part of the narra- 
tive to you is rich with instruction. In the ten- 
derness of the meeting, between the father and 
the son, you have an image of the tenderness of 
another meeting, which takes place between the 
weary and heavy-laden sinner, and Jesus Christ, 
the sinner's friend. It is thus, that Jesus w T ill re- 
ceive the repentant sinner. He will take him into 
his household, and adopt him as his child. He 
will confer upon him a blissful immortality. 



THE RECEPTION. 9(F 

Though it may almost surpass human belief,, 
numberless are the attestations to the fact, that 
though the sinner comes from his mournful wan- 
derings, covered with the leprous spots of moral 
defilement, Jesus will receive him with a tender 
heart. He will joyfully receive the wanderer in 
his arms. He will take the burden from his shoul- 
ders, and remove the load from his heart. Jesus- 
will never break the bruised reed; He will never 
quench the smoking flax. His heart is all tender- 
ness toward those Avhom He left his bright home 
to save. With what exquisite tenderness does- 
Jesus receive back his erring creatures ! 

They may have wandered long, and, like the 
prodigal, reached the lowest depths of vice, yet 
they are kindly invited, and tenderly received. 
He will not turn a single applicant away. Sweet 
robed mercy will whisper forgiveness into their 
ear, and assure them of a hearty welcome. The 
Saviour will remove their transgressions from 



100 THE PRODIGAL SON. 



them, as far as the Plast is from the West. Oh, 
say, is there tenderness anywhere to be compared 
with this! 

I would not serve a master, who will never re- 
ward but with imprisonment and death. I would 
not be the object of hard-heartedness and cruelty, 
when I might be kindly regarded by the God who 
is love. I would not remain in a far country, 
with none to love me, when I might return home 
and be the child of heaven's King. I would not 
live upon the barren husks of this world, when it 
was my privilege to eat of angel's food. 

We remark : 

Third. — That his father received him affection- 
ately. This thought is contained in the words, 
" and he kissed him." To run from his house to 
.meet him, was an evidence of Avillingness. To 
fall upon his neck, and lay him upon his bosom 
; saw an evidence of tenderness. But to kis^ him 



THE RECEPTION. 101 

was a manifestation of love. A kiss is a token of 
affection; and giving him this, was at once a 
pledge of friendship, reconciliation, and love. 
The father could not have done more to show his 
son that all his past offences were forgiven and 
forgotten. 'Twere indeed a comfort, such as mor- 
tals seldom have, to meet with such a reception 
after such a departure. 

We know that the toils and trials of many a 
dark hour, would be entirely forgotten, could the 
earthly wanderer now be encircled in arms of 
such changeless affection. We have often pro- 
pounded the question to ourselves, Avhether it 
were possible for the parent to have shown more 
real love for the son who had voluntarily exiled 
himself from the home of his childhood ; and 
when he had nowhere else to go, had returned 
covered with dishonor and with ignominy, with 
rags and with dirt. Wonderful love ! Drawn to 
the bosom and most tenderly kissed. Must not 
7 



102 THE PRODIGAL SOX. 

the prodigal have known from this, that there yet 
was room for him in his father's household, and a 
place for him in his father's heart? 

For you, my impenitent friends, this feature of 
the prodigal's reception, is most suggestive and 
encouraging. It renders apparent, one of the most 
precious truths to be found in the Bible ; a truth 
for which you and I shall be humbly but joyfully 
grateful, if ever we are residents of the celestial 
city. 

In the father's falling upon the neck and kissing 
Ids ragged and unworthy son, you have a beauti- 
ful figure to set forth the affectionateness of the 
meeting between Christ and the returning sinner. 
There is one difference. The tender love with 
which Jesus receives the penitent, is infinitely 
greater than that with which the father received 
his son. He too, on your return, will "kiss you 
with the kisses of his mouth." Notwithstanding 



THE RECEPTION. 10 3 

your moral defilement, he will lay you upon his 
bosom, and love you with an everlasting love. 
The Saviour has given every proof that he will 
lovingly take you back again, when you return 
from your wanderings and go home. 

There could not be anything more touching than 
the affection that He shows, toward the weary 
and heavy-laden sinner. Mercy never looks half 
so lovely, as when she stoops down, to whisper 
into the ear of the despairing penitent, the word 
" forgiveness." Jesus' love is boundless ; " it is a 
sea that no line can fathom — it is an ocean with- 
out a shore." And its greatness is never made so 
manifest as when the wanderer returns to his God. 

Is it nothing to be thus received by the Saviour? 
Is it nothing, when you have been wandering 
upon the dark mountains of sin, to know that 
there is a home to which you can go, and a kind, 
tender Friend who will love you ? Who will 



104 THE PBODIGAL SOX. 



crown you with his kindness, notwithstanding 
your unworthiness, rind fill your hearts with a 
peace of which the world knows nothing? 

Jesus stands, with open arms and a generous 
bosom, and kindly invites you to come. Will you 
not accept his invitation and return, that you may 
experience your Father's kindness in this world, 
and your Father's love in the next? 






AT HOME AGAIN. 



Luke, 15 : 22, 23, 24. 

" But the father said to his servants, Bring forth the 
best robe, and put it ox him; and put a ring on 
his hand, and shoes on his feet . 

" And bring hither the fatted calf, and kill it; and let 
us eat, and be merry : 

"for this my son was dead. and is aliye again; he was 
lost, and js found.*", 

TTTE come, this evening, to dwell upon the 
last subject contained in this interesting 
parable — the prodigal at home again ! It were 
easy to imagine the treatment which he would re- 
ceive, after his tender reception. It may almost 
be deemed a work of supererogation, to dwell 
upon that which we all feel must be so. But, be- 
cause there is something so pleasant in the con- 
templation, we love to contemplate it. Because 



106 THE PRODIGAL SOX. 

there is something so suggestive and precious to 
man, in the father's subsequent treatment of his 
son, we feel it to he well worthy of deep and 
prayerful study. 

The condition of the prodigal, when an exile 
from home, seemed the more sad, because of the 
striking and painful contrast with his early years. 
And now, when he has again returned to his 
fathers house, and to his father's bosom, the 
change in his circumstances "is only the more ap- 
parent, because of his sad experience when in a 
distant country. We think of him, then, ragged, 
and lonely, and sad, and hungry, standing by his 
swine, and in the bitterness of his soul exclaim- 
ing, " How many hired servants of my father's 
have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with 
hunger." We think of him now, seated at the 
festive board; partaking of the fatted calf ; with 
shoes upon his feet ; with a clean robe upon his 
shoulders, and with the ring upon his finger. We 



AT II03JE AGAIN. 3 07 



love to muse upon the picture, in that it is so sig- 
nificant. We feel ready to invoke the choicest 
mercies to rest upon the father, for his kindness 
and love to the son who had so often grieved him. 
We feel willing to rejoice for the son's sake, that 
he has seen the error of his ways ; sought his ear- 
ly home, and found a resting-place from all his 
troubles. 

When we think that the wanderer has returned, 
and that the long-lost son has been folded to 
his father's bosom, we see before us something 
more than a young man returning home, and his 
father willing to forgive him. As we have hint- 
ed, in all this we can see a prenguration of a more 
important return, and of a larger and nobler for- 
giveness. It brings before us that sad hour, when 
transgression barred the gates of Eden against 
the guilty pair. It brings before us that memor- 
able night, when angels announced to the won- 
dering shepherds of Bethlehem that the Saviour 



108 THK PRODIGAL SON. 



was born. It brings before us, too, that bright 
hour for the destinies of our race, when the sepul- 
chre was unlocked, — when its fetters were broken, 
— when its power was vanquished, — and when the 
poor sinner's Friend ascended to glory, and pre- 
pared, as he ascended, a passage way to his 
throne; and, by every menus that infinite love 
could suggest, urged the wanderer into it, that 
thus he might be saved. 

To proceed to the more immediate consideration 
of the subject of the evening, — the prodigal at 
home again, — we are led to remark : 

First. — That the father treated his son with 
respect. When you think upon all, you hardly 
need to be told that this is so. It is evident from 
the words, " But the father said to the servants, 
bring forth the best robe and put it on him." 
The Jews were accustomed to wear two garments, 
or perhaps, we should say, robes. The one worn 



AT HOME AGAIN". 10£ 

ordinarily, the other on extraordinary occasions ; 
both fastening with a girdle around the waist. 

By the best robe, here, is meant the outer gar- 
ment worn only on festive occasions, and by prin- 
ces and great men. Such an one, were the ser- 
vants commanded by the father to pat upon the 
son. He was a beggar before, but now he would 
make him a prince. That he did so, proves con- 
clusively that he treated him with consideration. 

Had he given him shelter and food ; had he at- 
tired him in coarse and homely garments, no one 
but must say, he was well treated. When, how- 
ever, he came in his miserable plight, — with tat- 
tered clothes, — with blood shot eyes, — with swol- 
len feet ; and half famished from his frequent and 
long abstinences, to put upon him the robe which 
the mighty men and the chief captains wore, to- 
say the least, in all the circumstances, was show- 
ing him very much attention. 



110 THE PRODIGAL SON. 

You cannot think of anything that took place 
between them that does not render this apparent. 
The servants were not allowed to taunt him upon 
his past beggary and degradation ; and the father 
observed the greatest delicacy, in every word that 
he uttered, and in evpry act that he performed. 
In all his intercourse toward him, he blended the 
dignity of the gentleman with the kind and ten- 
der manner of the parent. 

From this part of the prodigal's history, im- 
penitent friends, you can learn much that is profit- 
able. It is filled with instructive and useful les- 
sons, that are available for comfort, down to the 
-closing hour of life. It is one of the recommend- 
atory traits of the Gospel of tho. Son of God, that 
it renders this great truth distinct, that though 
the sinner, by his previous conduct, is totally un- 
worthy, yet when he returns as a lowly penitent, 
with rags upon his person, and is desirous of be- 
coming a member of the Saviour's household, he 



AT HOME AGAIN. Ill 

will be treated with the greatest possible respect. 
The Redeemer will take from him the tattered and 
filthy garments of his own merit, and will clothe 
him in a seamless and spotless robe, dyed in the 
blood of Calvary ; a robe that will permit him to 
sit down in this wilderness, at the table upon which 
is spread the gospel feast; and that will enable 
him, amid the palm-groves of the heavenly Ca- 
naan, to sit down, at the same board, with Abra- 
ham and Isaac and Jacob, and with the countless 
number of whom the world was not worthy — a 
robe worn by philosophers, and by statesmen, by 
counsellors and by kings ; by everyone who shall 
be made a king and a priest unto God, and wear 
a crown within the limits of the glorious inheri- 
tance. 

In every sense, the Saviour's dealings with the 
returning wanderer will be most considerate. His 
sins and iniquities shall be remembered no more. 
He will treat him as kindlv as if he had never sin- 



112 THE PRODIGAL SON. 

ned ; in truth, as if he had always done all that 
was required of him. It is much to be permitted 
to come. It is more to have the promise that our 
previous lives shall never influence His mind to 
our injury. 

.My friends, in such circumstances, is it nothing 
to be kindly and tenderly noticed by the Master? 
Is it nothing to be the objects of his regard, un- 
diminished in time or in eternity? Is it nothing 
to have a guarantee of being honorably treated 
by his family, here and hereafter ? is it nothing, 
when you think how often you have grieved him ; 
how often you have done that which he has posi- 
tively forbidden; how, almost daily, you have 
trampled upon his most sacred requirements, to 
be generously and fully forgiven? Is it nothing, 
when by sin you have journeyed into a distant 
land, and lost everything that you could call your 
own ; that returning, covered with rags, you 
should have such a beauteous robe put upon you, 



AT HOME AGAIX. 113 

and be treated with so much consideration "? Is 
all this nothing? It is everything to man, bound 
to eternity, and the judgment seat. 

To have forgiveness, and a shelter, and food, 
and royal robes, and an everlasting home, where 
there is always enough and to spare, is more than 
you deserve, and more than any one, save Jesus, 
would do for yon. 

We remark : 

Second. — That the father treated his son with 
kindness. This is evident from the words, u put 
a ring on his hand." Among orientals, and espe- 
cially among the Jews, to wear a ring on the hand 
was a mark of dignity and wealth. " The rich, 
and those in office, commonly w T ore them." The 
putting of a ring upon the prodigal's finger, by 
his father, therefore, was a special mark of favor. 
Indeed, it was an evidence of distinction confer- 
red upon a favorite. Here it was expressive of 



114 TUB PRODIGAL SOX. 

the kindness, which the father entertained for his 
son ; and the favor into which he received him. 
To disrobe him of his worn-ont garments, and to 
put upon him a beauteous robe, was much. But 
it was more — a greater mark of distinction — to 
place upon his linger the signet ring. 

You must feel that there was some difference 
between the swine feeder, in a far country, and 
the young man at home again, attired in garments 
worn by the mighty and the honorable; with a 
ring upon his hand, that the wealthy and the 
(thief captains wore. 

That ring ; what did it say to him? It told 
him that though for a season he had been friend- 
less, feeding upon the charities of a selfish world, 
yet now he had a friend who would remain true 
to his interests amid innumerable changes. It 
said to him, that though by his prodigality lie had 
lost much, yet more was in reserve for him. That 



AT HOME AGAIX. 115 

he need have no apprehension for the future. 
That when sickness came, he should have a pillow 
for his aching head ; and one to watch by his 
couch of pain. 01 what was that ring not to 
him an earnest and a pledge ? Symbolically, yet 
to him, in language easy to be understood, it wa s 
an evidence of perfect restoration, and an assur- 
ance that he should he the object of his father's 
kindness, and affection, and love. Beautiful pic- 
ture ! We may study it with profit, so long as- 
we live. 

My impenitent friends, look and receive encour- 
agement and instruction. You, when you return 
to the Saviour, shall receive greater kindness at 
His hands, than that, of which to the repentant 
son, the father's ring was a pledge. We would 
not attempt to spiritualize this image. We may,, 
however, draw from it the important truth, that 
God will treat the returning sinner with the great- 
est respect, as well as with the tenderest kindness. 



116 THE PRODIGAL SOW. 



That He will be more to him than the father 
<30utd possibly be to the prodigal. 

My friends, do yon tremblingly and donbtingly 
nsk, "can this be true?" "Will Jesus treat me 
kindly, after all I have done to grieve him? Will 
he give me all that, of which, to the prodigal, the 
ring was a pledge? Will he so deeply and so 
strongly love me ? " He will. There is not one, 
Among all the members of the household of faith, 
whether now on earth, or whether already gone 
to walk the beautiful streets of the celestial city ; 
who did not, or who does not, experience infinite 
kindness from his Elder Brother. 

I love to tell yon of the kindness of Jesus as a 
friend. He who, in the days of His flesh, went 
as a sympathizing mourner, and stood by Mary's 
mid by Martha's side, as together they wept by 
their brother's grave ; He who stood upon the. hill- 
top above Jerusalem, in the sweet, calm hour cf 



AT HOME AGAIX. 117 

twilight, and in the fulness of His heart breathed 

out a prayer for the city that He loved, which for 

beauty and sublimity has never had an equal, is 

still the same kind Friend that He was in the days 

of His flesh, as He journeyed on His errands of 

mercy, over the vine -clad hills of His beloved 

Palestine. Though he has gone up again to take 

Plis seat, amid the rejoicings of an innumerable 

company, who stand round about His throne, yet 
is it true that 

" Our Fellow-Sufferer yet retains 

A fellow-feeling of our pains, 
And still remembers, in the skies, 

His tears, His agonies, and cries." 

The giving of the ring, by the father, was beau- 
tifully and touchingly emblematical. It told of 
an affection that should last as long as life. But 
humanity is not caj^able of a love as deep, as 
strong, and as lasting as the Saviour's. What is 
so good and so great a gift in this world, as a true 
friend? One who will rejoice with us in our joys, 



118 THE PRODIGAL SOX. 

and whose tears will flow with ours, in seasons of 
sadness and grief; one who will never take ad- 
vantage of our circumstances, and who will love 
us none the less if we sometimes err; one upon 
whom Ave fuel that Ave can always, with safety, 
depend ? What a jewel is such a friend. Yea, 
what a diadem, set with gems that sparkle like 
the diamond on the brow of darkness. Such a 
friend is Jesus. " Tor, as a father pitieth his chil- 
dren, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him." 

As the ring upon the prodigal's linger was a 
pledge of deathless friendship, so is the friendship 
of Jesus. It is without end. Coldness cannot 
weaken it. It burns just as brightly, amid the 
most pinching poverty, as it does in the marble 
halls of senators and kings. It will be just as 
tender in the hard hour of dying ; and there will 
be no change, amid the august assemblage of the 
judgment day. Whom Jesus once loves He will 
love unto the end. We remark : 



AT HOME AGAIN. 119 

Third. — That the father treated the prodigal as 

a dear son. This is evident from the entire para- 
ble. But especially, from the following words : 
" Bring hither the fatted calf, and kill it, and let 
us eat and be merry. For this my son was dead 
and is alive again, was lost and is found." The 
fatted calf, that had been reserved for some spec- 
ial occasion, was killed and prepared ; and the son, 
with his beauteous robe, with his signet ring, and 
with his shoes, sat down in the banqueting hall, 
to partake of the feast, amid happiness and joy. 
Think you not that there was gladness in his heart, 
and that he blessed the hour when, a poor, ragged, 
and half-starved swine-feeder in his master's field, 
in a far country, he came to himself, and resolved 
to return to his father ? 

Doubtless the trials of the past were forgotten, 
in the enjoyment of the present. His must have 
been a lofty column that gratitude raised ; and the 



120 THE PRODIGAL SON. 

letters upon it must have been deeply carved, 
traced by the hand of thankfulness ! 

In that household there was happiness, and in 
the father's heart there was real joy. A little 
time before, sorrow sat upon his countenance, the 
tear stood in his eye, and the heavy sigh that 
broke from his bosom, told that memories of the 
past came mournfully to his recollection. Now, 
just as his sun w T as about to set, amid clouds and 
darkness, suddenly the bow appeared. The clouds 
parted. His sun went down in undimmed beauty. 
And even the twilight of death was rendered soft- 
ly lustrous, by the serenity of its departing rays. 

Once more, impenitent friends, look and receive 
instruction from this heavenly parable. You can 
see, in this feature of the prodigal's treatment by 
his father, one illustration of your heavenly Fa- 
ther's treatment of you, when you become mem- 
bers of his household. " I w r ill be a Father unto 



AT HOME AGAIN". 121 

you, and you shall be my sons and daughters," is 
His gracious language. A kind, tender, and lov- 
ing Father will he be. In all respects He will 
treat you as dear children. Think not, ray friends, 
that you can measure the Saviour's love. It is 
fathomless. It reaches from one boundary of the 
universe to another ; and from this low earth to 
the centre of the throne where he sits. 

The prodigal was taken all newly arrayed, and 
was seated at a sumptuous repast. If you con* 
ceive of this as a type of either this world or the 
next, how magnificently beautiful it is. When 
once you belong to Jesus, He will strip you of 
your ragged garments, and put upon you the 
seamless robe of His own righteousness. He will 
feed you upon the ordinances and the promises 
of His word and of His sanctuary. Thus he 
will lead you by still waters and in green pastures. 
He will continually be spreading a table for 
you, so long as you are dwellers in time. 



122 THE PRODIGAL SOX. 

Often will it occur, even though in an enemy's 
country, that your hearts shall be filled with a 
joy that the world is as powerless to give as to 
take away. It will not be, however, until you sit 
down to partake of the feast, to which the prodi- 
gal's and that of Gospel times, look onward; that 
the full force of these words shall be seen and felt. 
Then all the exiles of earth shall have been wel- 
comed home ; and all the wandering prodigals 
shall have reached the threshold of their Father's 
•door. The robe which you wore, amid your scene 
of warfare, may be covered with the dust and the 
blood of battle. When, however, you have step- 
ped from the chilling of Jordan waters, upon shores 
where the sunshine of heaven always sleeps, shining 
beings shall take off your worn garments, and put 
upon yon a robe as spotless as the Father's throne, 
and as beautiful as his own home. With this 
upon your shoulders ; with a crown, radiant with 
immortality, upon your heads, and with the palm 



AT HOME AGAIN. 123 

of the conqueror in your hands, you shall be con- 
ducted across the vestibule into the Banqueting 
Hall. What a garnished apartment ! A golden 
floor, clear as glass — with walls of jasper — and 
with pearly windows; — the light nowhere seen, 
yet filling that vast temple, as brilliantly as if 
lighted by a thousand suns. 

We wish that we could tell you of the company 
that shall be congregated there, to sit down to- 
gether at the Marriage Supper of the Lamb. 
There is Moses, risen from that unknown grave, 
where his Maker buried him amid the solitudes of 
Pisgah. Abraham, and Isaac and Jacob are there, 
from the cave of Machpelah, where their honored 
dust rested so long, There, too, is a long line of 
Patriarchs, and a noble band of Martyrs. Doubt- 
ing Thomas is there ; and by his side stands the 
bold and impulsive Peter. Stephen, the lamb-like 
martyr, is there ; and leaning upon his bosom is 
Saul of Tarsus, who once held the garments of 



124 THK PRODIGAL SON. 

his murderers. John, the lone exile of Patmos, 
is there ; and seated by his side is Henry Martyn, 
from his humble sepulchre underneath the walls 
of Tocat. Mary, the weeping mourner at the 
Saviour's tomb, in the early gray of the morning, 
is there ; and leaning upon her, with sisterly affec- 
tion, is Harriet Newell, from her lone grave on 
the Isle of France. 

The father's joy was so great, we are told, that 
when they sat down to partake of the fatted calf, 
there was music. Thus shall it be with you, when 
you are seated with your Father, in the magnifi- 
cent residence which he has prepared for all his 
children. "I heard," said John, "the voice of 
harpers, harping with their harps. And they sung 
as it were a new song before the throne, and be- 
fore the four beasts, and the elders : and no man 
could learn that song but the hundred and forty 
and four thousand, which were redeemed from 
the earth." Must it not, then, be true, that, in 



AT HOME AGAIN. 125 

your case, as well as in the prodigal's, there shall 
be genuine happiness ? 

Now, impenitent friends, it only remains for us 
once more to ask, " Will you not do as the prodi- 
gal did ? Arise and go to your Father, that you 
may secure His protection and His love here, and 
be permitted, through grace, hereafter to sit down 
in His beautiful home, as members of his family, 
to enjoy His hospitality and presence forever ?" 



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